


in this desert, how we blossom and we cease

by averita



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Community: got_exchange, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2036316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averita/pseuds/averita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is no stranger to undressing in front of ladies, of course - she’s spent her life being bathed and measured and put together by all manner of maids - but this feels different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in this desert, how we blossom and we cease

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ladybird97 for the got_exchange community on LJ. Set during ASOS (pre-RW), slightly aged up. Title from “Shine” by Vienna Teng.

“Oh, sweet girl,” Margaery laughs, crossing the room and pressing the back of her hand to Sansa’s cheek. It’s cool and soft, and the gentlest touch Sansa has felt in longer than she can remember. “You’re red as a radish. You should have said something!”

“I didn’t realize how bad it was,” Sansa says, which is only half true. The southern sun is heavy, and smothers King’s Landing with thick heat that soaks her gowns and tangles her hair; until recently, however, she spent her days in the shadows of the Keep, quiet and miserable and far from the spotlight. Now, though, there is Margaery, and her days are suddenly filled with outdoor games, hawking and riding, long walks through the gardens and swimming in the shallows outside the city. It is as though she’s living another life, the one she had dreamed of when she first rode south a lifetime ago, and she is loathe to miss a second of it - even when she finds herself slowly roasting beneath the midday sun, as she had earlier in the day as the morning clouds had dispersed over the grassy area where they were picnicking.

Margaery glowed in the sun, tilting her face up so that her hair caught the light and shone gold. Her cousins, too, had seemed unbothered, giggling merrily as they swapped jokes and court gossip, and so Sansa had suffered in silence, sipping tepid lemon water and making an effort to laugh along even as her head swam and her vision grew unfocused.

“I know just the thing,” Margaery promises, “I won’t be a moment.” Indeed, she is gone only minutes, returning with a satisfied smile that Sansa can’t help but return.

“When I was eight Willas took me out on the river,” Margaery confesses, “and it was such a lovely day that when he said it was time to go inside, I begged him to let us stay just a bit longer.” She giggles, her face relaxed with fond nostalgia that makes Sansa ache a little. “And then a bit longer, and a bit longer - he was never very good at telling me no! I used to love it when he’d put me to bed at night, because he told the best stories, and he’d tell as many as I wanted. But that day we were out for hours and hours, and when we finally came home I was burnt to a crisp! And we had visitors at the time, no one very important but I had to go greet them with a face like a tomato, it was awful.”

Sansa leans forward, wincing slightly as the movement stings her shoulders. “Willas sounds wonderful, though,” she says, trying to keep the longing from her voice, but Margaery’s smile turns a little bit too understanding for it to have been successful.

“He is,” she agrees. “He will make you very happy, Sansa, I promise.”

Sansa bites her lip, ducking her head as a knock rings through the chambers and several maids enter with a tub and several pots of water. “Come now,” Margaery commands, taking Sansa’s hand and pulling her to her feet, “turn around.” Her fingers quickly work the laces of Sansa’s sweat-stained gown - a new one, with the short sleeves and low neck the women from the Reach favor - as her ladies fill the tub, and Sansa steps out of it with a barely suppressed sigh of relief.

Margaery takes a small vial from one of her maids and dismisses them, closing the heavy doors so that they are alone once more. “Marigold extract,” she chirps, waving the vial. “It helps with the swelling.”

Sansa smiles nervously, twisting her fingers in her shift. “Thank you,” she says, but Margaery merely waits, expectant, and shows no signs of leaving.

She is no stranger to undressing in front of ladies, of course - she’s spent her life being bathed and measured and put together by all manner of maids - but this feels different. Margaery is her friend but will also be her queen (she must not forget that, must not ever forget that), and there’s a queer, unfamiliar ache in her belly at the thought of her seeing the unformed lines of her body. The desire to impress the older girl has only grown as they have become close, and she doesn’t feel very impressive right now, simply sticky and sore.

But Margaery is waiting, eyes wide and earnest, and Sansa thinks she understands why Willas could never say no to her.

She slips quickly from her shift, holding her arms carefully by her side and fighting the urge to cover herself as Margaery’s gaze seems to sharpen somehow. Still, she stumbles as she steps into the tub a little too quickly, and is grateful that her cheeks are already red with sun because otherwise her embarrassment would surely be bright and noticeable.

The bath water is tepid, but it feels wonderful, though she winces as she sinks in deeper and it covers her shoulders. “There,” Margaery declares, unstoppering the marigold vial with the same ease she had undone Sansa’s dress. “This will help, I promise.” She tips in several drops, which spread over the surface like grease and shine a thousand different colors. Sansa trails a finger over the patterns, watching them swirl.

She feels better in the tub, the filmy surface offering little in the way of modesty but comforting nonetheless, and she closes her eyes. She floats, growing drowsy, breathing in the sweet flower scent; Sansa has always loved baths, and the springs in Winterfell had meant that she could take them often, with no shortage of hot water to soak in.

There is a rustling behind her as Margaery moves about the room - light footsteps, the scrape of a chair, the soft sound of hair being combed out. Eventually there is a slide of fabric, and Sansa’s belly clenches as she realizes that Margaery must be undressing, too, but when she kneels beside the tub and Sansa cracks her eyes open, the other girl is still in her shift. Her hair is loose and wild around her face, and up close like this, Sansa can see that the sun hadn’t left her untouched after all - the color is darkening, a dusky rose high on her cheeks, and her lips are slightly chapped.

Sansa closes her eyes again as Margaery settles behind her, dragging a stool over to sit comfortably as she begins to unwind Sansa’s braids. “Are you feeling better?” she asks, speaking more quietly now - night has begun to fall around them, the last streaks of sunset fading through the window.

“Yes,” Sansa murmurs, shifting slightly in the water. “Thank you.”

“My mother was so angry when we came home that day,” Margaery says conversationally, fingers sliding through Sansa’s hair and carefully working through the tangles. “She said we should have known better than to stay out so long. But I must have looked quite pitiful because it didn’t last very long, and she made me a bath like this one and taught me about marigolds and aloe and lavender - flowers are very useful, you know, they can protect against all kinds of things, but the gardens here aren’t quite as large as the ones in Highgarden.”

“We had gardens in Winterfell,” Sansa says quietly after a pause. Margaery’s fingers tighten in her hair, just briefly, before she resumes her careful combing. “Glass gardens. They weren’t very big and there weren’t many flowers, it was mostly food stores, but there were some.” She swallows hard. “I thought they were so beautiful.”

_One day I will take you to Riverrun_ , her mother had promised many years ago. _Even the trees are beautiful there, and the rivers, and the flowers - there are flowers of every color. You will love the south, Sansa._

She doesn’t tell Margaery that, though, merely squeezes her eyes more tightly shut.

Her last braid falls loose, and Margaery’s fingers still before moving lower, resting on the sides of Sansa’s neck. “You will love Highgarden, then,” she finally says. “When you’re feeling better we’ll go to the gardens, and I’ll teach you everything my mother taught me.” Sansa shivers as Margaery absently trails a finger along her collarbone, her head growing light and dizzy the way it had earlier, but from an entirely different kind of heat.

Margaery’s fingers slip further down, smoothing over the slick skin and just brushing the tops of Sansa’s breasts before sliding back up to cradle her face. Sansa stretches in the tub, feeling her nipples tighten as she leans back and opens her eyes.

Even upside down and in candlelight shadow, Margaery is beautiful, perhaps even more than usual - her eyes wide and dark, lips slightly parted and very close to Sansa’s. Even her breath is moist and sweet on Sansa’s face. Sansa thinks that she would probably taste sweet, as well. Suddenly she wants nothing more but to find out.

The kiss Margaery gives her is chaste, though, a lingering brush on her forehead, and Sansa’s eyes fall closed again when the other girl pulls away.

“It will be better soon,” Margaery promises, and though Sansa nods and smiles in agreement, she wishes she knew which pain Margaery is referring to.


End file.
